The hedges that hug each side of the driveway outside my house seem to be a pair of welcoming arms for any piece of local rubbish that ever had a whisper of wind behind it. Every ugly egg box or unlovable crisp packet seems to find permanent sanctuary in this leafy embrace, until me or one of my neighbours ruins their tender moment by forcibly suggesting they might find even greater romantic solace inside our wheelie bins.
In fact, I would go so far as to say that it is only after I've almost skidded over on a sodden Domino's pizza box that I truly feel I've come home. Some people may be welcomed over the threshold by the affections of their cat. For me, it is a nomadic carrier bag (normally that brandless, blue and white vertical striped variety) that cleaves affectionately to my calves as I'm fumbling with my keys in the porch.
This morning, as I left the house, there was a particularly dark collection of detritus on my doorstep
An empty condom wrapper…
…a cotton bud, and a mangled advert appealing for the return of Tigger, the missing tabby cat.